


The Lights Above Radon Canyon

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: AU, Carlos is a reporter, Fluff, M/M, lots and lots of fluff, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil very much likes the strange new reporter who has arrived in Night Vale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lights Above Radon Canyon

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing redtypewriter!  
> A slight AU in which perfect Carlos is a reporter, Cecil is still Cecil, and I basically rewrite the beginning of their relationship.

“So . . . the pies are invisible?” says the strange man with the perfect hair sitting across the table from Cecil.

“Not only that,” Cecil explains, “they’re also entirely incorporeal and tasteless; the Moonlite All-Nite Diner makes the best nonexistent pies around,” he adds cheerfully, taking another forkful of the deliciously unreal stuff himself.

“Okay, so, they don’t exist at all. Interesting . . .” The handsome reporter scribbles something down in his little notebook. His beautiful hair bobs a bit when he looks down. _What an unusual character,_ Cecil thinks. _He asks such odd questions--it’s almost as though he’s never seen a nonexistent pie before. How strange._

“What are those weird lights in the sky I keep seeing down at Radon Canyon?” the reporter asks, peering across the table at Cecil with a look of intense curiosity. Cecil can’t help blushing a bit under the scrutiny of such a handsome man with such lovely hair.

“Oh, those old things?” Cecil waves a dismissive hand. “They’ve been around since anyone can remember. Or since anyone wants to remember, at least. We’re not entirely sure what they are. They aren’t yet proven to be dangerous, anyway, and the Sheriff’s Secret Police haven’t banned them, so . . .” Cecil shrugs. “We just let them be.”

“Interesting . . . very interesting,” the stranger says, and notes something in his notebook, his flawless hair bouncing.

_Such a curious visitor,_ Cecil thinks, as he finishes his pie. He wipes away the imaginary crumbs around his mouth with a napkin. _I must ask for his name so I can speak about him on the show tomorrow. Besides,_ he thinks wistfully, _he has such_ beautiful _hair._

“Can you tell me,” the lovely reporter goes on, “why I never see anybody in that dog park near the center of town? It looks like a nice place for a walk, even with the towering electric fences.”

Cecil shakes his head vehemently. “We don’t talk about the dog park.”

“Why n--”

_“We don’t talk about the dog park.”_

They sit in silence for a few minutes. It is a comfortable, natural silence, punctuated only by the occasional blood-curdling screams coming from the restaurant’s deep fryers.

“If you don’t mind, I have a . . . personal question I would like to ask you,” says the intriguingly mysterious reporter.

“Yes?” Cecil replies, trying not to sound overeager.

“What is your name?” the stranger asks, pen and paper at the ready.

“That isn’t so very personal,” Cecil says, admittedly a bit disappointed.

And then--oh, miracle of miracles--the beautiful stranger actually blushes, and it might just be the most gorgeous thing Cecil has ever seen. The reporter clears his throat nervously, and Cecil’s stunning view only gets better. “It is rather a bit personal, to--um, well, to me,” says the glorious specimen sitting across from Cecil.

 _So well-spoken,_ Cecil gushes inwardly, feeling a bit out-classed. Nevertheless, he _is_ the one being paid to speak for a living, so, using his best radio voice, he says to the shining vision of loveliness seated in the booth not three feet away from him: “My name is Cecil. Cecil Gershwin Palmer.”

The reporter’s eyes furrow as he writes the name down, concentrating on each and every letter he places on the paper, and Cecil flushes under the man’s indirect attention, as though _he_ were the one being stared at.

And then--and it is the most perfect thing Cecil has ever witnessed--and then, the flawless, lovely, wonderful stranger looks up into Cecil’s eyes, smiles ( _Smiles,_ Cecil thinks, and just for him!), and says, “I’m Carlos.”

_Carlos._ This is the one thought in Cecil’s head for a very long time. Possibly seconds, but more likely several minutes, because when Cecil finally comes out of his daze, Carlos (his name is Carlos, Cecil knows his name and it is Carlos, oh such a perfect, wonderful name for such a perfect, wonderful man) is looking at him with concern. No, more than concern, Cecil notes with glee, _intense_ concern, looking at him with that scrutinizing gaze that he had earlier fixed on his notebook as he wrote down Cecil’s name.

“Are you alright?” Carlos asks, and suddenly his voice is like velvety music in Cecil’s ears.

“Yes,” Cecil says immediately, because he is _very_ alright, he is _extremely_ alright, he is possibly the most alright he has ever been.

“Good,” Carlos says, nodding and perfect. “That’s good.”

“Soooo . . .” Cecil says, after a bit of silence (this one is slightly more awkward than the one before, and the sudden halting of the tortured screams makes it that much more so). “You’re a reporter, then?” _Yes,_ Cecil thinks, _small talk is good. He’s obviously very dedicated to his job; it’s good to let him talk about something he’s passionate about._ Cecil very much wants to see Carlos talk about something passionately.

“Yes, I am a reporter,” Carlos says, perfect and beautiful, staring down at his uneaten nonexistent pie. “I was sent here--to Night Vale, I mean--to do an in-depth study of the area and its inhabitants, and to either confirm or deny the rumors that this town is the single most dangerous and scientifically impossible place in the continental U.S.”

“And _is_ it?” Cecil says, eager for Carlos to keep talking. His voice is like melted chocolate, or the blood of sacrificed animals: warm, inviting, and pleasant on the tongue.

“Well, that’s just it,” Carlos says, running a hand through his perfect hair. (Cecil’s heart ceases to beat for a second or two.) “My research has thus far been inconclusive. I’ve been in this town for about a week now, and you’re the first person I’ve spoken to who has agreed to do an interview with me. The others all either buzzed incoherently at me until I went away, or ran away screaming in terror when I mentioned that I was a reporter. I was starting to get pretty discouraged.”

Carlos’s beautiful face falls a little, and Cecil’s heart follows. “But then you came along, Cecil,” he says, cemetery smile returning, and the sound of Cecil’s own name on this perfect man’s lips is enough to make his heart figuratively do backflips and literally begin to beat very fast. “I really appreciate you sitting down for an interview with me. It’s been a huge help. Thank you for that. And, um, for--” Carlos clears his handsome throat. “For . . . lunch. Lunch was nice. This was . . . very nice.” He smiles at Cecil, who practically cracks his face open in the act of beaming back.

* * * * *

“. . . So _then,_ dear listeners, he asked me if I would like to meet for _another_ interview on Friday! And of _course_ I said yes, so now we have a date for Friday as well! Oh, my dear listeners, what an extraordinary newcomer we are hosting in Night Vale. What a perfect specimen of beauty this glorious Carlos is. What a lucky man I am to be graced with his company! Now, my dear listeners, with joy in my heart, I give you--the weather!”

As the song begins, Carlos turns down the sound on his portable radio. He has a lot to think about, and he doesn’t want loud music distracting him.

Who, exactly, _is_ this radio announcer named Cecil Gershwin Palmer, with a charming smile and eyes that fog over whenever Carlos looks at him, who has just spent a full twenty minutes of his radio program discussing their interview the day before with unusually explicit detail? And why does he seem to be utterly smitten with Carlos?

Carlos has never before in his life been called “beautiful,” let alone “perfect.” He had always been considered a bit of a nerd: a classic picture of the introverted writer/journalist, who ought to consider himself lucky if a guy even glanced his way. He doesn’t have strikingly good looks, or nice clothes, or an energetic attitude. If he’s honest with himself, he’s a bit of a dork. No one has ever claimed to find him physically attractive before.

Cecil’s fixation on his hair also seems rather unfounded. Carlos has never thought much of his hair. It isn’t as though he dislikes it--he’s just never really considered it anything special; it’s average hair. It does a good job of covering his head, and his ears when it’s cold, and he returns the favor by shampooing it once a day to keep it from becoming dirty or oily.

And yet, for reasons Carlos can only begin to fathom, Cecil seems to find Carlos’s hair his most engaging feature (well, aside from his, quote, “perfect and flawless soul aura”). In fact, Cecil seems to think that every single thing about Carlos, even his attention, is something to be prized and sought-after. If the radio broadcast Carlos has just listened to is any indicator, Cecil is thoroughly obsessed with him, and Carlos doesn’t quite know how he should feel about that. He finally settles on flattered but wary. After all, this _could_ all just be some elaborate prank (though somehow Carlos doubts that).

 _Either way,_ Carlos thinks, _I have to meet with him again before I come to any solid conclusions. Besides, I need more information about this town for my report, and Cecil’s the only one who’ll give it to me._

It’s right about then that the weather ends, and Cecil’s voice comes back on the airwaves, pulling Carlos out of his thoughts and back to the papers scattered across his desk. He lasts ten minutes before drifting off, the sonorous, relaxing tones of Cecil’s voice lulling him to sleep.

* * * * *

Cecil arrives at the Arby’s (the subtly romantic location of their second date) a full twenty minutes before the appointed time. He’s made sure to spruce himself up a little this time: he’s wearing his nicest tunic, but only his second-nicest pair of furry pants, because he wants to save the nicest ones for the (fingers crossed and bloodstone sacrifices made) third date. He is also wearing a new cologne called “Rabid Goat,” which is advertised to (and does) smell a lot like clotted strawberry cream.

Eagerly, he awaits Carlos’s arrival, brushing his tunic free of any lint or tiny dust-creatures that may have found their way onto the fabric. He repeatedly attempts to sniff his own breath (unsuccessfully; even in Night Vale certain things are impossible) every few seconds. He gets up to visit the restroom several times, checking to make sure his appearance has not drastically changed in the past few minutes (not an entirely unfounded fear in Night Vale). He wants to make a good impression; the poor man must feel so lost in a town where people notoriously hate and fear newcomers, and Cecil wants to make his stay as comfortable and homicide-free as possible.

After about fifteen minutes, a waitress comes around to take his drink order. Cecil is unsure what Carlos’s favorite beverage is, so he just orders two of his personal favorite: the Arby’s Sparkling Bloody Mary Special™.

Two minutes after their drinks arrive (at the original appointed time of 7 o’clock), Carlos finally enters, coincidentally wearing an ensemble just as formal as Cecil’s: black slacks, a pressed white button-down, and an argyle bowtie. He looks absolutely _stunning_.

When Carlos slides into the booth across from him, Cecil’s stomach suddenly feels a bit like it did that time he mistakenly ingested demon-possessed butterflies.

“Did I keep you waiting long?” perfect Carlos says, eyebrows knitting together with concern.

“No, not at all,” Cecil says, because you don’t just _tell_ someone that you’ve been waiting at the table for twenty minutes on only your _second date_. That’s fifth date stuff, at the very least.

“Shall we order before starting the interview?” Carlos says, with a smile.

“Sure!” Cecil says, and hides his grin behind his opened menu.

Their conversation on this date is significantly more casual than their first. Carlos seems to be in less of a discovering-things-about-Night-Vale mood than in an asking-Cecil-personal-questions mood. Not to say that the questions are _too_ personal; they are just the right kind of personal for a second date. _Carlos is very good at this sort of thing,_ Cecil thinks proudly.

Carlos asks Cecil things like, “What is your favorite food?”

To which Cecil replies, “Big Rico’s Pizza,” because it is required for every citizen of Night Vale’s favorite food to be Big Rico’s Pizza, but after a moment of glancing around the restaurant to check for hidden Secret Police, Cecil leans forwards and whispers so that only Carlos can hear: _“Deep-fried cuttlefish bones.”_

And Carlos smiles from ear to flawless ear and scribbles the information down in that little notebook of his, as though Cecil is groundbreaking news, and Cecil finds that he has become very, very, terribly in love with this man.

But you don’t just _tell_ someone you love them on only your _second date_ , so Cecil contents himself with staring at Carlos’s utterly perfect everything and answering his just-the-right-kind-of-personal questions.

They remain in their booth, chatting (and, in Carlos’s case, scribbling), until after midnight. It is only then that they realize how long they have been “dining,” and they are forced to bid their goodbyes and go their separate ways.

Driving home, Cecil admits to himself that he is, _perhaps_ , a little bit disappointed that their date ended as early as it did. _But really, Cecil,_ he tells himself admonishingly, _did you honestly think that anything would happen on only the_ second date _? Besides,_ Cecil thinks, _why ruin the anticipation now, when there are so many more dates to come!_

* * * * *

Carlos is sipping coffee in his laboratory the following morning when Cecil’s inevitable announcement comes on.

“Dear listeners, I am sure you recall the announcement I made earlier this week, about our newest resident, Carlos of perfect body, soul, and hair, and his sudden, magical appearance into my life. (Not literally magical, of course, because as we all know, all practicing of magic was banned in Night Vale by the Sheriff’s Secret Police several months ago due to _that one incident that we shall never, ever speak of_.) I also mentioned that we had scheduled a second date for Friday evening, which did indeed occur! Oh, my dear listeners, it was even better than I anticipated. Carlos looked even more beautiful and flawless than usual . . .”

Carlos allows himself a small smile. It’s really very sweet, how Cecil is (possibly literally) bursting to tell the general public about their “date.” For some reason, Carlos is hesitant to add the quotation marks. It wasn’t _supposed_ to be a date, but somehow, it had definitely _felt_ like one--not that Carlos has much experience with that sort of thing; he’s only ever been on three or four dates in his life, if he doesn’t count these past two.

But the thing is, Carlos can’t remember an evening he’s enjoyed more. It had been so easy, he realizes, to just _chat_ with Cecil. There had been no extended silences, no unsure tones--none of that stuff that made first (and, as Cecil seems to think, second) dates awkward. There was only Cecil: kind, polite, and rather pretty Cecil, who seems to think that Carlos couldn’t do wrong if he tried. Cecil, who thinks Carlos is _perfect_.

Carlos thinks he should probably be embarrassed by all the attention, but he’s more intrigued than anything. Cecil’s devotion to him is as mysterious as it is seemingly boundless, and, ever true to his profession, Carlos is determined to get to the bottom of it. For now, though, he is content to listen to Cecil’s lovely voice drifting through his lab, and wait until the morning broadcast is over to call him up. He’s free again next Tuesday evening.

* * * * *

Cecil switches off the soundboard and hangs up his headphones, stretching his limbs after an hour of sitting and relaying the morning broadcast. He’s about to tell the new intern, Samantha, to fetch him a cup of coffee when his cell phone rings.

_I really must get caller ID one of these days,_ he thinks as he presses the “accept” button. “Hello?” he says, with his radio voice.

“Hello Cecil, this is Carlos,” comes the reply.

Cecil is sitting bolt upright in a second. His stomach is tightening itself into knots and he can feel his tattoos spin over his arms and chest with restless excitement. Carlos is calling me! he shrieks inside his head. _Perfect Carlos is calling_ me! “Carlos!” he says into the phone, his voice suddenly jumping up an octave. “You called!”

“Yes,” says the perfect, sonorous voice emanating from the speaker, and Cecil’s skin tingles the same way it does whenever he snacks on phosphorescent octopus tentacles. “I was wondering if you were free on Tuesday night. I’d like to have dinner with you again.”

“Oh!” Cecil beams. _Yes! A third date!_ “Do you want to discuss the town some more?”

There is a clearing of a flawlessly-shaped throat on the other line. “I . . . Cecil, I know you seem to think that we’ve been on dates before. I’ve heard your broadcasts; I know that you’ve been referring to Friday night as our second date. And . . . basically I’m saying that it wasn’t. A date, I mean. And last Tuesday wasn’t a date, either.”

Cecil’s heart shrinks several sizes (which is only partially metaphorical) and he suddenly feels very, very foolish. How could he possibly think that _Carlos_ would be willing to date _him_? Silly little Cecil, wearing his heart on his sleeve . . . what a stupid thing to do! “Oh,” he says, softly, sadly. “I see.”

“What I’m trying to say is . . .” Carlos takes an uneven breath. _Still perfect,_ Cecil thinks, helplessly. “What I’m trying to say is I would like this Tuesday night to be our first date. If that’s okay with you.”

Cecil’s world stops. For a few centuries (or perhaps seconds), he is unable to make a sound. Finally, he takes a breath (had he been holding it?) and says, “Carlos?” It comes out small and breathless, but it’s all he can manage.

“I would rather our first date be official,” Carlos is explaining. “I mean, instead of something I didn’t learn about until the day after. On your radio show. That the whole town was listening to. But if you don’t want to, I completely underst--”

_“Carlos!”_ Cecil shrieks, unable to control himself. “You want to go on a _date_?! With _me_?!”

“Yes, I--”

“ _Yes!_ Yes yes yes! I would love to! Oh, Carlos, dear, dear, perfect Carlos! Just _think_! Me, little old me, on a date with _you_! Oh, _Carlos_!”

And with that, Cecil thumbs the “end call” button so hard he nearly breaks his phone.

* * * * *

Their first _official_ date takes place at Gino’s Italian Dining Experience and Grill and Bar, which Cecil assures Carlos is the classiest restaurant in town. Carlos has only been living in Night Vale for two weeks, but at this point he’s ready to take pretty much everything at face value. He’s learned by now that, in Night Vale, if you think about certain things too much, you start to go a little crazy. So if Cecil insists that this place is the fanciest it’s going to get, Carlos can deal with that.

Besides, he doesn’t much care _where_ they spend their first date, just so long as he’s with Cecil. Which is corny and actually sort of stupid, because obviously without Cecil there wouldn’t be a date at all, but Carlos is feeling rather giddy right now and can’t be expected to think of well-written prose when _Cecil Gershwin Palmer_ is sitting across from him.

Cecil, covered in those moving tattoos that change depending on his mood, and which now resemble hearts. Writhing, pumping, and anatomically-correct hearts, but the sentiment is there, nonetheless.

Cecil, wearing another pair of those ridiculous furry pants he wore on their “second date” that he probably believes are nicer, but are equally (and endearingly) ridiculous.

Cecil, sitting across from Carlos with a smile on his face bright and wide enough to split midnight in two.

“Are you going to ask me questions again?” Cecil asks, jolting Carlos out of his thoughts.

“Questions? No, I don’t think so,” Carlos admits. “I didn’t bring my notepad tonight. I was thinking maybe _you_ could ask _me_ the questions.”

Cecil’s eyes go wide, his mouth dropping open into an “O” shape. “You want _me_ to ask questions about _you_?”

Carlos can’t help but smile. “Of course.”

Cecil beams, and Carlos’s heart skips a beat or two. “Oh, _Carlos_!”

They talk for a long time. They talk all the way through their drinks and the appetizer and their entrées and dessert. Cecil will sometimes stop between inquiries to simply stare at Carlos with a mushy look in his bespeckled eyes--until Carlos clears his throat or shifts in his seat, which usually succeeds in snapping Cecil back to reality.

“Where do you come from?” Cecil asks, at some point very late in the evening. “What foreign, exotic place has produced a specimen as intriguing and lovely as you?”

Carlos feels his cheeks heat. “. . . Baltimore.”

“Then Baltimore is _perfect_ ,” Cecil says, sincere as anything. “ _You_ are perfect.”

Carlos doesn’t even attempt to stop a huge, dopey grin from spreading across his face. “So are you,” he murmurs, shyly.

For the second time that evening, Cecil’s eyes widen in shock--but this time, he smiles. “Oh, Carlos, my _dear_ Carlos, my _perfect_ Carlos, what a lovely thing to say! It isn’t true, of course, not in the least, but nonetheless a lovely sentiment. You truly are a _perfect_ date, my Carlos,” Cecil gushes, and takes a sip of his water. (At least, Carlos assumes it’s water. It has a slightly green hue to it and appears to be whispering.)

One thing about Cecil’s statement is bothering Carlos. “Of course it’s true,” he says, frowning. “I do think you’re perfect.”

“Oh, my sweet Carlos, you are too kind,” Cecil replies, tattoos swimming happily up and down his arms. “You can think whatever you like, but you would be wrong. I am far from perfect.”

“Well, so am I,” Carlos says, laughing slightly, until he looks up and sees Cecil’s face.

Cecil looks a lot like a kicked puppy dog would look if its misery had been multiplied by a hundred. “No, Carlos,” he says, looking just about ready to burst into tears. His tattoos have turned into dark, swirling masses converging around his arms and above his shirt collar. Something odd is happening to his eyes behind those thick glasses of his. “No, Carlos, you are _perfect_.”

Carlos shakes his head. “No, I’m not. I’m just a person, Cecil. I’m just--”

“But Carlos, you are perfect to **ME!”** At this last word, for the briefest of moments, something _happens_ to Cecil. There is a flash of something, something utterly unlike anything Carlos has ever seen before; something frightening and large and powerful and _definitely_ not human. It is only there, in Cecil’s place, for a split second, barely enough time for Carlos to even register that it is there, and then Cecil is back again, though still looking as though he’s been broken.

“Cecil,” Carlos breathes, attempting to slow his panicked heart. He can find no other words to say, so he says the name again: “Cecil.”

“I’m sorry,” Cecil murmurs, and now he sounds very small and very harmless, and Carlos knows without a shred of doubt in his mind that Cecil would _never_ hurt him. “I’m sorry; sometimes I become rather frightened, and I can’t stop myself. Ugh, that is _so_ embarrassing. I just hated to hear you call yourself not-perfect, it was upsetting--”

“It’s alright, Cecil,” Carlos says, finding his words again. “I . . . I’m honored you think of me that way. Perfect, I mean.”

Cecil brightens considerably at that. “You are?”

“Of course,” Carlos says, managing a shaky smile. “Nobody’s ever called me perfect before. Or beautiful, or lovely, or dear, or any of the things you always call me. And, since I’ve only been getting this treatment for about a week now, I’m not quite used to it yet. So it’s . . . difficult for me to believe any of it.”

Something hardens in Cecil’s heartfelt expression. “Then I’ll _make_ you believe it,” he says determinedly. “I’ll call you perfect so many times, you will have no choice but to believe it.”

This causes Carlos to blush rather furiously. “Cecil, you really don’t _have_ to--”

“Oh, but my dear, sweet, lovely, beautiful, _perfect_ Carlos, I _want_ to!”

And suddenly Carlos really can’t take it anymore. “Come here,” he says, softly.

“Carlos?”

“Please come over here and kiss me.”

And, after the widened eyes, drop of the jaw, and contorting dance of heart-shaped tattoos, Cecil does. He stands up, walks over to Carlos’s side of the table, leans down, and _kisses him_. On the _lips_.

It’s not a very dramatic kiss, as kisses go; Cecil is very careful and the kiss itself is small and gentle, almost chaste--as though Cecil is _still_ asking, “Is this alright?”

And of _course_ it’s alright, but they are in the middle of a restaurant after all, and Carlos figures that even in Night Vale public displays of affection are frowned upon in apparently classy locales such as this one.

So they stop kissing long enough to pay the bill, exit the restaurant, and climb into the back of Carlos’s car. It is only then that they begin kissing again, and it’s significantly more heated than the first time.

At first, Cecil goes in for another careful kiss, but Carlos doesn’t let him get away with it this time. He grabs hold of Cecil’s shoulders and tugs him closer, pulling the man’s body against his own. Cecil responds first with stunned surprise, then eagerly leans into the kiss, but not before squealing “Carlos!” as though that word holds all the joy in the world.

Without boundaries, Cecil kisses him like he’s _hungry_. He throws his arms around Carlos’s neck and buries his fingers in the reporter’s hair even as Carlos is moving his own to rest around Cecil’s waist, all the while practically gnawing at Carlos’s mouth.

They stay like that for a while, just excitedly kissing and each scrambling to hold the other closer, and Carlos thinks somewhere deep in his kiss-fevered brain, _This is the most amazing thing I have ever done._

After what feels like hours but must have only been minutes, they sit, quietly, in the back seat of Carlos’s car, Cecil straddling Carlos’s lap and still clutching him like a loving and beautiful leech, the two of them just breathing together. Cecil’s tattoos, Carlos notes, have not yet had time to convalesce into any recognizable shapes, and now merely resemble multicolored tendrils aimlessly drifting across Cecil’s lovely skin. Absentmindedly, he nudges his finger against one on Cecil’s right arm, and it curls affectionately into the touch, its colors brightening slightly. Carlos can feel Cecil’s blush from where his head is tucked into the space beneath Carlos’s chin.

“They like you,” Cecil murmurs, and Carlos’s heart constricts with joy, because Cecil’s tattoos _like him_ , and damned if that isn’t the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard. He leans down and kisses one on Cecil’s forehead, and it lights up like a 100 watt bulb before shyly slithering away to join its fellows on Cecil’s arms.

“Oh, perfect Carlos,” Cecil mutters against Carlos’s collarbone, “dear Carlos. My Carlos. You are my Carlos, aren’t you?” He looks up into Carlos’s eyes, still unsure, still asking questions, which is utterly ridiculous and really just won’t do at _all_.

“Of _course_ I’m your Carlos,” he says, smiling wide. “And you’re my Cecil.”

Cecil, lovely Cecil, _his_ Cecil, beams back at him. “ _My_ Carlos!” he shouts with an exuberance that Carlos doesn’t think he will ever tire of, and pulls Carlos in for another kiss.

* * * * *

Cecil sits in his bedroom at two in the morning, soon after Carlos drops him off (but not before giving him a deep, slow kiss goodnight), clutching a pillow, unable to sleep.

Carlos had _kissed_ him. The perfect, beautiful, unattainable Carlos had kissed _Cecil_. On the _lips_! _Three times!_ Even now, with Carlos’s sweet musk still lingering in Cecil’s nostrils, he finds the whole thing difficult to believe. But it _did_ happen; Cecil can remember it all: Carlos’s soft, lovely lips on his own; Carlos’s strong, beautiful arms around his waist, tugging him closer, asking for more; Carlos’s _impossibly perfect_ locks of hair between his fingers, feeling a bit like a miracle banned by the Sheriff’s Secret Police those few months ago for reasons never to be repeated; and finally, when it was all over, Carlos’s sweet kiss against his forehead, making one of his tattoos embarrassed and flustered, but only serving to make Cecil all the more in love with this man.

And then--oh, sweet gods, and _then_ \--Carlos had said that he was Cecil’s, and that Cecil was _his_. And this is absolutely _wonderful_ , because Cecil loves Carlos, and now he gets to _keep_ him. Cecil’s tattoos glow and shimmer and morph themselves into miniature suns at the mere thought.

_The best part is,_ Cecil thinks as he grins into his pillow, _he saw me, I slipped up and he saw my true form, but he_ still _let me kiss him. He_ asked _me to kiss him! My poor Carlos, he’s only been in Night Vale for a couple of weeks, he must have been so frightened by me, but he didn’t run away. He kissed me! Carlos KISSED me!_ And Cecil can’t help but make a squealing noise that he tries (and fails) to muffle with the fabric of his pillowcase. _Oh, my dear, sweet Carlos . . ._

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to, not after a night like this one, but eventually Cecil does fall asleep. Needless to say, his dreams are filled with Carlos.

* * * * *

TWO WEEKS LATER

It is night, and Carlos and Cecil are sitting on the hood of Carlos’s car, staring up at the lights above Radon Canyon. Cecil’s head is resting on Carlos’s right shoulder, and Carlos’s arm is wound around Cecil’s shoulders. They haven’t spoken since they left the Arby’s an hour earlier, when Cecil had said “I love you” to Carlos for the first time, to which Carlos had responded, “I know,” kissed Cecil senseless, then said, “I love you too.”

Now, Carlos is offhandedly wondering why no one back at the newspaper has tried calling him yet, demanding he report _something_ back about his investigative ventures in Night Vale. He’s been living in this crazy town for about a month now, and hasn’t yet said a word to his superiors. It’s as if everyone back home (which is not that many people) has completely forgotten about him. Or maybe--and, to Carlos, this seems far more likely--in Night Vale, you simply cannot be found very easily.

And this rather suits Carlos down to the ground, because he loves Cecil, he does, he’d said as much about an hour ago in the Arby’s parking lot, and if leaving Night Vale means leaving Cecil, then Carlos is perfectly fine with remaining in this impossible town for the rest of his life.

Cecil shifts slightly against Carlos’s side, almost asleep; his lovely, strange-colored eyes are closed to the world, but there is a small, gentle smile on his lips, just for Carlos.

And at another time of day Carlos might wonder how he got so lucky, or perhaps give Cecil a small kiss goodnight, or maybe even tell him “I love you” again, because he _does_ , but now it is night, and Carlos can only stare up at the beautiful, impossible lights above Radon Canyon and think to himself, a wry smile upon his own lips:

_Goodnight, Night Vale._

_Goodnight._

**Author's Note:**

> That fic turned into a monster on me. It started out as a ficlet, but as you can see it got a little out of hand...  
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed it. Any critique or comments are welcome, of course!


End file.
